The Waif
by Marj123
Summary: A young child makes sure he is not seen or heard as he listens to something on TV, - something about homeless children, and children's services available. Harry's sure he's not really a Freak, and maybe he deserves better.


_This is a work of fanfiction. Characters and world created and owned by J .K. Rowling. This is AU._

Mary O'Connor yawned and glanced at the clock. Half an hour before she could go home. For a moment she didn't even see the child who looked at her anxiously from beneath a mop of black hair.

But then he said, very politely, "Is this the Department of Children's Services?"

Mary said, puzzled, "Yes."

"Then could you please arrange for me to go to an orphanage?"

Mary asked gently, "Where do you live now?"

The boy shook his head, and was silent.

Mary tried again, "What's your name?"

The child said in a firm voice, "My name is Ricky Stewart."

"Well, Ricky, why do you need an orphanage?"

The child looked a little confused, "My parents are dead, and I'm not big enough yet to look after myself."

"Where have you been living?"

The boy glanced at the door, but then seemed to take courage. "I need someplace to stay please. Someplace where they give me enough to eat." He looked at her appealingly, "Please?"

Mary was not proof against that appeal. She picked up her phone, and said to the social worker, "A boy, about seven or eight. Says he needs an orphanage and he's very hungry." The boy nodded vigorously, and Mary repeated, "_Very_ hungry." The boy smiled.

He smiled even more when the young man with hair tied back in a pony tail put a large hamburger in front of him, with some soft drink. Paul watched him, trying not to too obviously watch him. He saw him eat ravenously, but the hamburger was only half finished when the thin child slowed, and finally carefully put it back in the container it had come in, and then put it in the small and very shabby school bag. Paul sighed. Food hoarding was a sign that this child had known real hunger.

He started his inquisition, "Is your name really Ricky Stewart."

"Yes, Sir."

"How old are you, Ricky?"

"Eight, Sir."

"When's your birthday?"

"I think it's near Christmas."

"Who did you live with?"

The boy was silent.

Paul tried again, "Where did you sleep last night?"

The boy asked, "Please, Sir, can I go to an orphanage now?"

Paul smiled, "It's not so simple. We need to find out who's responsible for you."

The boy looked a little confused, and he finally said, "I don't think anyone's responsible for me. On TV, it said that this department was supposed to look after boys like me. So we don't have to live on the streets."

"Have you lived on the streets?"

"No, Sir. I thought an orphanage would be better."

Paul said, "There are no orphanages these days as such. A few charity homes, but mostly we arrange foster parents when it's needed."

The boy looked doubtful, and Paul asked cunningly, "What sort of foster parents would you like to look after you, Ricky?"

The boy answered readily, "Someone who lets me have enough to eat, and only hits me when I'm really bad."

"Did the people who looked after you before hit you much, Ricky?"

The boy looked at the door, as if he was thinking of running. Paul took the hint, and said, "Well, we won't worry about that for now. What I'll do is have a doctor have a quick look at you, and also, I'll call in a lady called Janelle. She looks after people like you, but just temporarily."

The boy wondered if she was thin. He didn't think he liked thin women. And he _hated_ big, fat men.

The doctor was big and fat, and his face was ruddy. The child backed away and looked up at Paul in a panic. Paul asked, "Dr. Bourne just wants to have a look at you, Ricky. All you need to do is take your shirt off." The child shook his head, and edged towards the door. Paul blocked him, and he started trembling.

Paul said, "You came to us for help. You need to trust us."

The boy's voice was high pitched, "I don't need any doctor. I want to go now."

Paul said gently, "You should stay here. In our care, you will have regular meals, a warm place to sleep. You'll be looked after."

The doctor was looking at the child assessingly, and finally said, "Why don't you get Mary in? He might relax a bit if there's a woman here."

Paul stuck his head out, and bellowed, "Mary!" The child jumped, and still looked at the doctor suspiciously. When the doctor just sat down, he perched himself nervously on the edge of a seat.

Mary tried to be maternal, but the boy didn't seem to understand the behaviour, though he looked at the rounded woman a lot less suspiciously than he looked at the doctor, and when he was promised an ice-cream if he complied, removed his shirt quite readily.

There was a silence. Mary took one glance at the skinny body marked with bruises and old scars, and picked up the shirt instead. Far too big, and very faded. His long pants were the same, far too big, cinched in at the waist with a belt, and cut off at the ankle.

The doctor commanded quietly, "Come here, Ricky. I want to listen to your chest, and do the usual sort of doctor things. You know, what always happens when you go to a doctor." The child looked at the floor.

Mary said gently, "Dr. Bourne is not going to hurt you, Ricky. How about if I hold your hand?"

The boy looked up at her, and nodded. He stood still as he was thoroughly inspected, and the doctor said, "Someone should be charged with child abuse. These are whip marks."

Paul asked, "Were you whipped sometimes, Ricky?"

The boy nodded, and Paul asked, "What else?"

There was no answer, and the doctor said in a matter-of-fact tone, "Take off your shoes and socks and trousers now, Ricky. Leave on your underpants."

The child looked up at Mary, who said gently, "Do it, Ricky."

Ricky complied. There were more bruises, and the doctor reached forward and felt the thin thighs. He turned to the social worker, and said quietly, "It's a case for the police. Someone has to be charged."

The boy jumped, didn't look at any of them, but started dressing again. No-one tried to stop him, but then he ducked behind Paul, wrenched open the door, and fled.

Paul caught him at the front door of the building, but only because the working day was over, and it had been locked. The boy was very hard to hold, fighting for release, but quite silent. He was carried back to the small interview room as Paul tried to reassure. But he asked Mary to lock the door before releasing the child, who was a lot stronger than he looked.

The boy looked at the window, and Mary begged, "Ricky, stop it. We're only trying to help. You want to have enough to eat, don't you? You want to be looked after, and not be hit."

The child looked at her with his bright, wary eyes, and said, "No policemen!"

"Why not, Ricky? He won't hurt you."

The child shook his head, and said, "Policemen fuck boys. I don't want him to fuck me."

Mary glanced at Paul, who said quietly, "You ask him."

Mary said, "Ricky, do you know what that means? To fuck boys?"

"I think so."

"Have you ever been fucked?"

The child's eyes went to the window again, and it took a second question before he said that he'd never been fucked and didn't want to be. "He said it would hurt more than the whip, and more than being kicked. Even more than the stove."

He changed his tactics, looking up at Mary, and saying heart-wrenchingly, "I don't like being hurt."

Mary gathered him in her arms, and said, half-crying, "No-one will ever hurt you again." He'd roused her pity, but it was when, quite suddenly, he relaxed in her arms and clung to her that she began to love him.

The child had apparently granted Mary his total trust, and when two police officers arrived, a man and a woman, he didn't seem particularly afraid. They couldn't get much out of him, no address, and no information about where he'd been living. He also refused to speak any more about how he'd been treated, only once saying anxiously that he would work as hard as he could and he didn't mean to be clumsy. That gave them the clue, and Dr. Bourne did a rough eye test, during which time they discovered he couldn't read.

He explained, "I tried to learn but it was too hard."

"Your teacher?"

"I wasn't allowed to go to school."

"Did you ever have glasses?"

"Would I be able to see better with glasses?"

"It depends on what's causing your poor vision. You'll need a proper eye test, and then we'll see."

On the news that night, there was a description of a small boy, aged eight, name of Ricky Stewart. Anyone who knew of him was asked to come forward, as he'd refused to give any hint of who he'd been living with. That it appeared obvious that he'd been severely abused, being marked with scars, and suffering from malnutrition.

A thin woman looked at her husband, and said quietly, "I think we should move." The large man nodded grimly. It was just the freak, but people might misunderstand.

Mary looked at the child she'd brought home with her. She'd never before volunteered to be a foster parent, but he'd clung to her and appeared frightened of Janelle's husband who'd come with her, so Mary had asked. She didn't think he'd run away from her, and there was no man in the house who might frighten him. Now he was eating at the table with her. He seemed to be trying to be polite, but he was clumsy, and she suddenly wondered if he'd ever used a knife and fork before. She was gentle and reassuring, hoping he wouldn't vanish from her life as suddenly as he'd entered it.

Afterwards, he started quickly and efficiently cleaning up, surprised and more worried when she told him that he needn't do that. In the end, they washed up together, while she told him a story of her sister's little boy who bellowed as if his throat was cut whenever he received a tiny graze. The boy giggled, but then looked at her with frightened eyes, as if maybe he thought he wasn't allowed to giggle.

A week later, the child was beaming all over his face as he ate an ice-cream and stared at a cage of monkeys. He was with Mary's sister, who was married with a family. Her own two children were still small, her husband was on a good income, and she didn't work outside the home. Ricky was wearing glasses, and had explained that he'd never known that he couldn't see the same as other people. He was quick to learn, and the six-year old was already teaching him to read.

Police Office Hamblin reported to his superior, "I've checked every record of any child called Ricky, Ricardo, Richard or even Dick Stewart, and none match. Also every death of Stewarts for the past ten years, looking for his parents, and again, none match. No school records, or doctor or hospital record, even though he's had bones broken according to the X-rays. The radiologist did a bone age assessment, and estimated his age as nine years and two months. We've had no-one come forward."

"Have you checked in Ireland and Scotland."

"In the whole of Great Britain. His accent is lower middle-class. I suggest we run a television appeal again, this time with a photograph and a more detailed description. I'm beginning to suspect he's given us a false name."

"Maybe a more firm interrogation first."

Hamblin nodded, "He seems attached to Mary O'Connor. I don't think he'll run away now."

The interrogation this time was much more severe. There was a woman present, Sandra Peters, but she just stood in a corner and didn't interfere.

The child was stubbornly silent, only cringing away when Hamblin approached too close. Hamblin suddenly took a far more gentle tone, explaining that he would never be hurt again by an adult, but that they needed to know his real name, and they needed to know where he'd been living.

The child said clearly, "My name is Ricky Stewart. They said my parents were killed in a car accident when I was a baby."

"_Who_ said, Ricky?" The child stared at the floor, and Hamblin bellowed suddenly, "_Who_ said? Who were you living with? You have to tell me!"

The child glanced up at him, eyes narrowed suddenly, then looked back at the floor.

Officer Peters thought that Hamblin was really being far too severe on the small boy. Hamblin stared at the boy assessingly, and then said, "Sandra, would you take over for a bit? I'll be back in a moment."

Peters was pleased to be given the opportunity, and sat down next to Ricky. She used a much more gentle tone, "Ricky. Is that short for something else? Did they call you another name?"

"Boy, mostly."

"Boy. That could be a name, I suppose." She noted it down, and tried, "What sort of house did you live in? Or maybe a boat or caravan?" A silence.

"Did you have a room of your own, or did you have to share?" Silence.

"What town was it? Did you have any friends?" Ricky sighed and shifted restlessly.

Peters asked, "What sort of things were you punished for? Tell me just one."

At last there was an answer. "I couldn't mow the lawn. It was too heavy for me."

"And how were you punished that time."

The silence resumed, but Peters had something. It sounded like it had been a suburban backyard, not a gypsy caravan, and he hadn't come off a boat.

Inside the toilet, Hamblin groaned. What had he eaten last night? Had it been a little too old? You couldn't trust butchers these days.

Sandra Peters continued trying to trick the boy into giving more information. "What were your other jobs?"

"Cleaning, cooking, and sometimes, she let me do the flower arrangements."

"Flower arrangements? Was it a nice place then?"

The child bit his lip, and when Peters asked if he was sometimes sent on errands, he wouldn't say.

Sandra asked, "Were there any other boys there? Any other children?"

There was no answer, and Sandra said, "Boys should not be treated as you were treated. If there were other children there, they must be rescued. You rescued yourself, and you did well to do that. But other children might not do that."

"It was only me. They won't hurt anyone else."

"Only you. Are you sure? What if they have another child? They shouldn't be responsible for children."

"It was only me they hurt. Because I'm a ..." But he stopped, biting his lip.

Sandra persevered, but the child wouldn't say what he thought he was.

She tried a different tack. "Do you like living with Mary O'Connor, Ricky?"

Ricky smiled and nodded.

"Is she good to you?"

"She gave me clothes, and she lets me have a big box of biscuits to keep in my room. It's so I won't be hungry in the night."

"Do you want to stay living with her?"

Ricky said quickly, anxiously, "I didn't like that other man." And he gave the benefit of his experience in life, "You can't trust men. And they hit a lot harder than women do."

"Did the woman hit you, too?"

"Never with a stick or anything. And she never kicked me or burnt me."

"Did she ever take you to the doctor?" The child shook his head.

"Did she try and tell the man not to hurt you?"

Silence again, and Sandra sighed, "We all want to help you, but you have to tell us things."

"Why? Can't I just stay with Mary? She says she likes me being there."

"Mary O'Connor is not a registered carer. It was a concession that she was allowed to take you even temporarily."

The child turned tragic eyes to the female police officer, and whispered, "She says to call her Mary, and she didn't hit me or yell even when I broke a vase. Please let me stay with her."

Sandra Peters was a little amused at the obvious attempt at manipulation, and yet knew that it had been effective. The poor little waif needed a good home, and maybe it was best for the moment if there was no man in that home. She glanced at the door, wondering where Hamblin was. She was doing a lot better than her colleague had done.

Hamblin thought that the bout of diarrhea might be over, washed his hands very thoroughly, and returned to the interview room. The boy glanced fearfully at him and then at the floor. Sandra stood and said gently, "Ricky, wait here for a moment while I talk to Officer Hamblin. I want to tell him what we've discussed."

She went to the next door room, behind the one way mirror. Hamblin pointed at the boy, who was trying the locked door and then trying to raise the window, even though it was on the third floor.

Sandra summed up, "There was a man and a woman, a lawn, and they had flower arrangements. My guess is that his existence was probably kept very quiet. He says you can't trust men, and they hit a lot harder than women do. He implied that he was sometimes hit with a stick, sometimes kicked or burnt."

Hamblin said, "I've had a lot more experience at interviewing than you have, Sandra."

"Of course you have."

Hamblin grinned, "But you're doing a lot better with this one. You'd best continue, especially as I don't seem to be very well. I think I'll watch from here, with Paul." Paul was now the case worker in charge of Ricky. It was he who'd brought the child to the police station for the interview.

Ricky was sitting again when Sandra returned to the room, showing no sign that he'd been looking for escape.

She started, "Ricky, we want you to be happy in a good home. We want you to go to school, and have reasonable clothing, and toys, like every other boy has. But crimes have been committed against you." She stopped, and the boy looked at her anxiously. Sandra asked, "Do you understand now that it's a crime for an adult to whip a child?"

"What about when I've been bad?"

"Even if you were very bad, it would be a crime to punish you more than a smart slap. But you've been punished badly enough to leave scars on your body, and that's child abuse."

Ricky said tentatively, "Child abuse."

Sandra was frank, "You've been neglected and abused. Whoever it was supposed to be your guardians deserve to be punished. You owe them _nothing!" _

Unexpectedly, the orphan agreed with her, "They never spent any money on me, not even for clothes. I had to steal so I had some underpants. I don't think I owe them anything."

"Then why won't you tell me where you lived?"

The orphan shut his mouth firmly. Sandra said, "We won't send you back, you know. You don't have to be afraid of them."

Sandra managed a mere two small extra clues, - that there was a car he'd had to wash every week, and that somewhere in his life, there had been a vicious dog. But each time he thought she'd managed to extract any information, he'd close his mouth firmly again and look longingly at the window.

Ricky was allowed to stay with Mary for three more days, but then he was moved to registered foster parents. He stayed a week, being meekly obedient, but then Mary found him at her door when she returned from work. She hugged him, and contacted the carers, who collected him. It happened twice more.

Mary tried to explain to him, "They think people who care for children should be married couples. And they think that one of them should be home all day, not working."

Ricky thought about it, and finally said, "Your sister said I should call her Auntie Sue. She said she liked me. She could apply and they'd say that she could be suitable, except that then I'd live with you."

Mary thought about it. It was actually quite a good plan, and had a good chance of working, just as long as Paul didn't think it his duty to report that the orphan's real home was with her. Her sister didn't want an extra child, no matter how appealing he could make his eyes.

In the end, the judge gave Mary temporary custody, with the proviso that her married sister look after him when she wasn't available due to work. Ricky was ecstatic, even when Mary explained that the arrangement would only stand as long as no-one came forward with a stronger claim.

Ricky asked anxiously, "Like what?" "Maybe grandparents, maybe other relatives."

Young Ricky thrived in the care of Mary. For the first month, he'd cling to her, wanting to sit on her knee. But suddenly he announced that he loved her very much, but he was too old to sit on knees any more.

He was still small, and once Sue decided that he could read well enough to attend school, he was put with the seven-year-olds. She didn't want her sweet little waif bullied by the bigger boys. Ricky wasn't bullied, not after he was cornered by two boys and left them both crying. He was very fast, and had somewhere learned how to hurt.

Ricky raced ahead in learning, lost his emaciated look and started to grow taller. His more recent bruises were long healed, and only the more permanent scars were left - a burn scar on his right forearm, a small scar from some sort of a deep cut on his right buttock, the whip marks, and a scar on his forehead, almost always hidden by the thick black hair.

The headmaster was surprised when his secretary said, "Young Ricky Stewart wants to talk with you, Headmaster." Students never came to his office normally, except when summoned, and then they came timidly. He knew who it was, knew what was known of his history, and very well remembered the advertisements that had been run continuously for a week in an attempt to find his family.

But the child faced him fearlessly, by now confident that he would not be physically abused merely because the adult he faced was male.

"Please, Sir. All the kids in my class are younger than me, and I want to be in two classes up."

The headmaster raised his eyebrows, _"Two_ classes up?"

"Yes, Sir. Mary will help me if I have trouble with arithmetic."

"Your teacher did say that you'd asked, but I thought you should stay with the younger ones until you're more comfortable."

The child looked at him earnestly, "I wasted a lot of time, Sir. I need to catch up now."

"Wasted time?"

The child nodded vigorously, but didn't explain further.

The headmaster said, "Maybe one class up for now."

The boy smiled, and the headmaster wondered if he might have been outmanouevred. Could that have been what he wanted all along?

By the time that eighteen months had gone by, Ricky was comfortably keeping up with classmates a year younger than himself. Mary applied to adopt him, but without knowing his true identity, that was not allowed. On the other hand, there was no indication that he might be taken from her. She was very happy with her almost-son, but when she started talking about a boyfriend, Ricky suggested that some women liked to be lesbians. He told her that women were much nicer than men, and she should consider loving a woman instead.

Mary laughed, and admitted that he had a good point, only that there were certain aspects to relationships that he would not understand until he was older.

It was July thirty-first, not quite two years after Ricky had asked Mary if this was the Department of Children's Services. She called herself Mary Brady now, her married name. Ricky had completed his first year of highschool, was happy and healthy, and was known as Ricky Brady, at his own suggestion. Mary's husband suggested that he might feel it made his early childhood more distant. Michael liked the boy, and Ricky liked him. They were a family.

Minerva McGonnagal stared at Albus Dumbledore in disbelief. "You dumped him with those muggles, and you never checked on him?"

Albus said defensively, "Of course I checked on him, as often as necessary. I can't help it if they decided to move!"

_"I_ wanted to keep a check, and dozens of people wanted to adopt him. But oh no, you said leave it to you! And like always, you pretend to be oh so wise, and people believed you!"

The outburst was unusual, but carelessly losing the sole hope of the wizarding world! It was hard to believe the old man's stupidity!

There was a search mounted, but the trail was cold. They didn't even find the Dursleys, who had a neat little home in Christchurch, New Zealand. On the first of September, when the Hogwarts Express steamed out of King's Cross station, the Daily Prophet had a front page story.

_The most important Prophecy in a century: - 'The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches - born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the 7th month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the 7th month dies.'_

_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord, - the __Only__ One, the Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter, born on the thirty-first July, marked by the Dark Lord, with a lightning bolt scar on his forehead, was entrusted to the care of Albus Dumbledore. How can we forgive the Hogwarts headmaster for losing him? What will happen to our world now? _

That year, with the help of the Defence Professor appointed by Dumbledore, and a Philosopher's stone safeguarded by Dumbledore, the great Lord Voldemort rose again. The Ministry of Magic was overturned, and Voldemort started to make those reforms he'd planned years before he made the mistake of trying to kill a tiny boy.

Muggles vastly outnumbered Wizardkind, and they were therefore dangerous. In the latest Holocaust, Wizardkind had been nearly wiped out. It was imperative that secrecy was maintained, but things had been relaxed far too far. A corrupt Ministry, with foolish men in charge, was endangering them all. The muggle-born... Each one was a real threat to the wizarding world. With rare exceptions, they were the result of a wizard raping a muggle woman and not working the anti-conception spell along with wiping the memory of the encounter.

Far too many wizards were yielding to vanity, and actually working the Conception Promoting Spell instead, leaving a wizard child like a cuckoo in a muggle nest. Albus Dumbledore, often referred to as a 'muggle-loving fool,' was in reality a 'muggle-lusting fool.' In his life-time, he'd been responsible for hundreds of muggle-born. He'd been known to say that children were the only true immortality, and he had no legitimate children. Arthur Weasley was another culprit, but the crime was rare among the pureblood families.

Voldemort was ruthless. He had to be, though he did try and wipe memories as much as possible rather than killing. It was not always possible. The very young muggle-born children and babies were given a new home, but the older ones too well remembered their lives. One could not modify a memory of a lifetime without destroying the mind. Innocent children were put down. Pains were taken not to hurt them, not to frighten them, but they could not be left to live. Innocent mothers were also put down, and the ones who regarded themselves as their fathers. Brothers, sisters, sometimes grandparents and other relatives. Every time Voldemort became aware of a wizard who'd committed the crime of leaving a muggle woman pregnant, the face was shown on the front page of the Daily Prophet, with the words emblazened, _This__ is the one to blame! _and the numbers of deaths that the crime had caused, were listed.

The known culprits had the choice of punishment, castration, or ten years in Azkaban. After Voldemort persuaded the Hecatema Association to join him in exterminating the Dementors, more chose the prison term. Azkaban had been another bugbear of Voldemort's. He simply didn't understand how Anirage could ever have condoned the use of the place, no matter what the crime.

August sixteenth. Ricky Brady's nominated birthday. His main present was a computer of his own. He made a password protected file, and wrote, carefully, Harry Potter. Birthday, (I think) late July. His old address, and the full name of his aunt and uncle and cousin.

Magic, and he listed the things he could do with magic, starting with giving someone a violent stomach ache. He could vanish things, lock doors, open locks, make fires, have things come flying to his hand, and he thought he could make it so that he wasn't noticed. He _thought_ he could, but he wasn't very conspicuous in any case, and he wasn't sure.

His hair was still pitch black, and too thick to be easily controlled, his eyes a bright green. He was still a little thin, probably natural for him, but his height was average for his age. His glasses had been carefully selected to be inconspicuous. He only wrote down his old name in some sort of tribute to his dead parents. He didn't want to forget it, but he was Ricky John Brady, with papers stating it. It was his official identity when all attempts at finding his true identity had failed.

Ricky John Brady's favourite person was Mary, closely followed by her tiny daughter. He considered himself an extremely lucky boy.

_**The End.**_


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